


The Accommodation Abstention

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Misses [1]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 23:17:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17590274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Strike decides to tell Robin how he feels.





	The Accommodation Abstention

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbeshalftail3469](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbeshalftail3469/gifts).



Strike was just adding milk to the mugs of tea he was making in the office kitchenette when he heard Robin’s footsteps on the stairs. His heart, which had already been beating erratically as he paced from his office through to Robin’s and back again for the last half an hour, sped up noticeably, hammering in his chest and making his hands shake. Suddenly the warmth of the spring air made the office stuffy and overheated, despite the open windows allowing a through breeze, his attempt to dissipate the haze from the cigarettes he’d chain smoked while he waited for her. The noise of passing traffic seemed to fade as the blood thundered in his ears. His hands were too big and clumsy as he fumbled to put the milk back in the fridge. Robin was almost at the top of the stairs now.

This was all Nick’s fault. He had finally convinced Strike over a couple of pints the previous night that there was nothing left to wait for. Robin was divorced, had been for some months. In fact, she had put in an offer on a flat and was hoping to move in soon. The business was going well. They had enough work to keep them both and their contractors busy. They were both single, although Robin had been on a couple of casual dates that she had apparently told Ilsa were unsuccessful. They were getting on better than ever, a relaxed and easy friendship that their friends insisted could slide so easily into something more, something Strike had given up pretending he didn’t long for. Not only had Nick systematically destroyed every argument Strike could think of, he’d laid out before him the stark fact that if he waited any longer, he risked missing the boat entirely.

Nick had suggested Strike take a bottle of champagne to Robin’s new flat when she moved in, congratulate her, raise a toast... And then what? Strike had demanded. The first time Robin was to live alone since Matthew, and he was supposed to turn up on the first night and make a move? He was her senior partner and only permanent colleague, would that not constitute sexual harassment? At the very least, it would be inappropriate. Nick had snorted and rolled his eyes, clearly seeing that as just another futile attempt to sidestep, but Strike had determined that it was probably best to talk to Robin, try to ascertain that she was definitely on the same page despite his friends’ insistence that she was. He couldn’t afford to get this wrong.

So, tea and a talk at the end of a working Friday. If it went well, perhaps dinner at the Tottenham. Or maybe somewhere a bit more upmarket if it went really well. If it went badly, he had the weekend to lick his wounds, recover his dented pride and work out how to proceed come Monday. It was now or never.

Robin had paused on the landing, talking to someone on her mobile. Strike stood by the mugs of tea, hovering, the breeze from the window ruffling his curls and stirring dust motes in the air, feeling as though he were waiting for the executioner’s axe.

The door opened and Robin entered, distracted, frowning as she listened to her phone, as beautiful as always and as utterly unconscious of it as always. He gazed at her, holding the two mugs of tea in front of him, vaguely offering one towards her.

“No, I understand,” Robin was saying now. “Thank you for letting me know. Thanks. Bye.” She hung up.

The flatness of her tone, the slump of her shoulders, had just begun to register in Strike’s fevered, distracted brain when she tossed the phone and her handbag onto her desk and burst into tears. She buried her face in her hands.

“Er...” For a moment Strike was frozen, at a loss. Everything he had planned and rehearsed queued up in his head and jammed there, preventing any other thoughts from forming. Then with a jolt he came to his senses.

“Robin, what’s happened? What’s wrong?” He stepped forward quickly, putting the mugs down on her desk and laying a concerned hand on her shoulder.

“I’ve been gazumped!” she wailed, half upset and half angry. “Someone has gone in and offered 20 grand over the asking price for my flat so they’re selling it to them instead. We were going to exchange contracts this afternoon!”

Strike stared at her. “Robin, I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely upset for her. She had been so excited about this flat. She’d talked of little else for weeks, and her animation and delight had been enchanting. He could have listened to her talk about it for hours. He probably had.

“Bastards,” she was muttering now. “I mean, I know it’s not illegal, but it’s immoral. It should be illegal. We had an agreement.”

Strike nodded in sympathy.

“Come and sit down,” he said, nodding towards the sofa. “I’ve made tea.” He picked the mugs up again.

Sniffing, Robin moved to the sofa and sat down. Why did it never make its hideous noises for her? Strike passed her her mug and sat next to her, and sure enough, fart sounds echoed round the office. Robin didn’t even giggle as she normally did. She sat back with a sigh and dropped her head back, gazing up at the ceiling, her mug of tea cradled in her lap. Strike sat tentatively near her, his mug in one big hand, the other moving to pat her knee lightly and then sliding away again. He felt awkward, strained, although only he knew what he’d been intending this moment to be about. Somehow it seemed to hang, unspoken, in the air between them. Cars honked outside as rush-hour traffic built up. The office felt small, crowded, in the slanting evening light.

“That flat was going to be my new beginning,” Robin said sadly. “Finally moving on, doing something for me, instead of just being stuck.”

Strike tried to think of something to say. The words and phrases he’d practised all afternoon rolled around in his thoughts, useless now. “Is it definitely out of the question?”

Robin nodded. “I can’t match them,” she said, resigned. “It was going to be a stretch as it was.”

Strike sighed. If he could only pay her more...

Robin glanced at him as though she’d heard his thoughts. “It’s nothing to do with the business,” she said. “To get the best mortgage rates, I need a twenty percent deposit, so my figure is directly tied to how much I got from the divorce.”

Strike nodded. She’d still be able to save more if the business were doing better. But he knew as well as she did that they were doing well, and working hard, for things to be as good as they were.

“Oh, Cormoran,” she groaned now. “Why can’t just one thing in my life go right? Look at me. Dropped out of uni. A failed marriage. No friends in London because I let Matt dictate who we hung round with for so long. Still living in shared accommodation. Two rubbish dates. I’m going to be single for ever. And I can’t even manage to buy a flat. I’m pathetic.” Tears brimmed in her eyes again.

“C’mere,” Strike said gruffly, pulling her into a hug, his arm over her shoulders. Robin snivelled a little into his collar, her hands still cradled round the mug in her lap, and Strike tried very hard to concentrate on rubbing a soothing hand on her opposite shoulder and not the smell of her hair right under his chin or the curve of her breast brushing against the side his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing back the rehearsed words that were trying to bubble up into his mouth.

“It’s not so bad,” he said instead. “You’ll find another flat. You don’t need a degree, you’re brilliant at the job without it. And you have got friends, you’ve got Ilsa and Nick, and Vanessa, and me.” _And you don’t have to be single for ever,_ he wanted to say. _I’m right here._

She raised her head a little and drew back, wiping a shaky hand over her eyes. Strike rested a finger under her chin, gently tilting her face up.

“Chin up,” he said stoutly. “You’ll get there, I know you will. You’re Robin Ellacott.”

She gave him a tremulous smile, her eyes on his. He gazed at her, struck anew by her beauty. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue-grey eyes bright, her lips trembling a little. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her.

She held his gaze for a long moment. He looked back at her, not breathing. His heart was banging again.

“Oh, Cormoran,” she sighed again, softly.

“Yes, Robin?” Was his voice really shaking that much?

“You’re such a good friend. Thank you. I’m so lucky to have you.”

Strike blinked and drew back a little, clearing his throat gruffly. “‘S all right,” he said, horribly self-conscious suddenly. For a second, this had felt like the moment. It so wasn’t the moment. He hid his confusion in taking a gulp of tea, and Robin sighed gently and sipped hers, gazing at the wall opposite.

Strike cleared his throat again. “Right,” he said, his voice steadier now. “You’re going to need something stronger than tea to drown your sorrows. Pub?”

She grinned at him, a sly sideways glance that made his unruly heart skip a few beats again. “Any excuse,” she said with a chuckle. “But I promised Vanessa I’d go with her to Zumba tonight, and you know what? That sounds like just what I need to burn off some frustration. And they’re a nice gang, there’s a couple of girls in the class I’d really like to be friends with. Rain check?”

Strike nodded, a little too enthusiastically. “Sure,” he said lightly. “No worries. Another time.”

Robin nodded and stood. She moved to the kitchenette, finishing the last of her tea as she went, and rinsed her mug out. Strike gazed, unseeing, out of the window.

“Anything else need doing tonight?”

“What? Er, no, nothing. You go. I’ll lock up.”

Robin nodded. “Thank you again,” she said softly, gathering up her bag and phone. “See you on Monday.” She bent down and kissed his cheek, warmly, chastely, and then she was gone, her footsteps clattering away down the stairs, more purpose in her stride now.

Strike sighed and looked down at his cold tea.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hobbeshalftail3469 suggested a Strike/Robin series similar to First Kisses, but where each attempt to get together by one of them is thwarted in some way, by the other, by circumstances, by a third party, leading to pining and friendship and fluff. Maybe even Ilsa tries to shove them together and fails. Hobbes has suggested the series title of First Misses. 😂😂
> 
> Any requests?


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